


Executive Time

by deadlybride



Series: The Ackles Presidential Library [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Consensual Infidelity, M/M, Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 10:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18134288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: The President's schedule is extremely tight, but mornings have a little leeway. Six a.m. wake-up call is Jared's job.





	Executive Time

**Author's Note:**

> written for the SMPC on Livejournal.

It's a Friday, which means it's a light day. Not that any days are ever light, but Jared's got a better sense of what a 'hard' day really means, now. An all-night legislative session with a filibuster and high-stakes pork trading in the Roosevelt room, that's a medium day. Brinksmanship between India and Pakistan, sweet-talking the French ambassador to provide a neutral ground to carry out talks, that's hard. This is a Friday, and the president's in Washington, and Jared hasn't been ripped out of his apartment by a frantic phone call from his secretary to deal with some new crisis. So far, so good.

He got home around eleven the night before; he wakes up at five and feels better-rested than he has in about a month. Six years working in the Senate and three in the White House and Jared still hasn't gotten around to buying a house, but that just means he's still in his apartment on Dupont Circle and it's an easy run to work. He barely breaks a sweat, the cool spring air washing over his skin and traffic not too bad, yet. He does a loop on 15th, around the Monument, the spike of it gleaming against the unclouded barely-blue sky, and that means when he comes around he gets to look at the White House the whole jog back. That's his office. It never gets old. He's grinning by the time he gets up to the gate and the guard says, "Morning, Mr. Padalecki—gonna be a good day?" when he shows his badge.

"Yeah, Marty," Jared says, and means it, like he doesn't on way too many other days. "Yeah, it's gonna be a good one."

The showers in the gym aren't great, but he uses them at this point more than the one in his actual apartment. Daniela brings his dry cleaning down here most days and, yeah, there's his charcoal suit with the blue tie that she insists matches. He dresses quick and he's still knotting the tie when he runs up the stairs, beeps his keycard a little awkward with one hand still holding the knot precariously together, but Dawn's working the desk and she just shakes her head at him and smiles and doesn't put her hand on her gun, so that's all right.

The West Wing's still mostly dark, not even six a.m., though there are a few interns in the communications bullpen who duck their heads or wave when they see him. Tiny lamps making pools of light, laptops making their faces eerie blue. Good kids—he was one of them, what feels like a million years ago. Not a job anyone actually appreciates, but he's always had a soft spot for the nerds. For one thing, he's always been one.

In the ten minutes he has left he gets into his office. Daniela's not here yet, thank god, because he doesn't want to have to pretend to scold her about coming in too early—means he can check his email in peace, check the daily schedule, check the Oval Office itinerary. Still an easy day. He blows out a long breath, quiet over his desk. Long may it stay that way.

He passes through the Oval, the plush carpet masking his steps, and comes out onto the balcony where the agents are guarding the empty room. "Green's moving," one of them murmurs. Down the balcony to the doors of the Residence, and down the halls, and a quick trot up the set of stairs to the president's bedroom—and just in time, too, with one of the butlers waiting with the breakfast trolley, quickly hiding a yawn when Jared comes around the corner.

"Morning, Carlos," he says, and Carlos gets out, "Unfortunately, sir," and Jared claps him on the shoulder, checking out the selection. Toast and that English marmalade the First Lady got a taste for, bagels and lox, spring fruit. Good stuff. All that really matters is the coffee, of course, but it'll get eaten one way or another. Carlos disappears and Jared takes the handle of the trolley, nods at the door. "Any movement?"

"No, sir," Martinez says. He and O'Reilly are on the residence detail in the mornings and they play blank very nicely, but Martinez has been on the receiving end of the president's wake-up face before and he quirks the smallest of smiles Jared's way, says, "Good luck with the transfusion," and then looks professionally ahead.

O'Reilly sighs and Jared grins. "If I scream for help you guys will save me, right?"

"The President's safety is our priority, Mr. Padalecki," Martinez says, and Jared says, "I'm wounded, you know that? I'm hurt," and then O'Reilly leans and opens the door for him to push the trolley through, and it closes behind him with hardly a sound. Noise-proof walls—that's a benefit of the presidency to make up for the prematurely grey hair and constant shit-slinging from every direction. Maybe. Also means it's significantly harder to wake up the leader of the free world in the morning, which is the whole reason they've developed this little routine. Not good to make news by having the president throw a mug at a butler. Jared's got a hard head, he can take it.

It is silent in here. Morning light seeps around the edges of the heavy curtains but otherwise the room's all shadow. Jared rolls the little trolley over to the sitting area and pours steaming perfect coffee into the delicate china cup, and makes his way closer to the huge bed in the carefully-kept dark. Cup safe on the nightstand and he sits on the edge of the mattress, and sighs. Air Force One landed at eleven last night too, which means the motorcade got back to the White House even later, and Jared always has the schedule memorized and knows that there was one last call to the Prime Minister of Japan, and so of course that means that the president was amped and didn't get to sleep until one at best, and that explains part of why he's slumped face-down on top of the duvet, still in most of a suit, shoes kicked off onto the floor. His face is buried in the luxurious puff of the covers, his arm wrapped around a bolster pillow dragged from the pile at the top of the bed, and in the dim his face is about the same color as his crumpled shirt. Jared lays his hand on the center of the warm slightly-sweaty back and leans in.

"Sir," he murmurs, "wake-up call."

There's a slight stir, and a grumble. Jared smiles, his heart folding up and giving in. It shouldn't be endearing. "Mr. President," he says, sing-songy, and at that Jensen's face tips out of the crush of the duvet and he swings the bolster pillow, eyes still scrunched shut. It bops gently off Jared's shoulder, no real power behind it. "Six a.m. Come on, the sun's out. It's a nice day."

"What gives you the impression," Jensen grumbles, his voice like sandpaper, "that I give a damn if the sun is out."

"You have a climate briefing at 2:00," Jared says, cheerful even if he's keeping his voice soft. "Might come up."

Jensen's eyes slit open at that, finally, and he angles a glare up and back at Jared, and it'd be a lot more impressive if his model-perfect hair wasn't fluffed up with sleeping hard, or if when he groaned and turned over he didn't have a terrible creased cheek from sleeping directly on the embroidered duvet. Jared turns on the low lamp on the nightstand and Jensen flinches.

"You look terrible," Jared informs him, helpfully. He touches the creases on his cheek, gentle, and Jensen bats him away, reactions slow. "Seriously. Embarrassingly bad."

"I hate you," Jensen says, stretching out. He holds onto the bolster pillow, frowning horribly. "I'm firing you. Putting you in one of those secret CIA prisons, no chance of parole."

"You could have the Secret Service shoot me," Jared says. Big shadows under Jensen's eyes. He hasn't been sleeping well, even without all the usual morning drama. "Public executions used to be all the rage."

Jensen doesn't smile. "They like you more than me, wouldn't work," he says, and Jared takes pity and holds out the coffee, and waits for Jensen to squirm a tiny bit more upright against the mountain of pillows before he hands it over. It's swallowed down in about three seconds, and Jensen holds the cup demandingly out for more, and Jared sighs and obliges, going back over to the trolley.

They can't manage this every morning, but when Jensen's in this hemisphere and actually in the building it's something Jared indulges in. After that morning in the first month in the White House when Jensen really did yell at one of the house staff for waking him—and after Jared had to stop him publicly apologizing and making the woman a millionaire for the insult, though she did abruptly get a promotion and flowers to her office every Monday for a year—it just seemed easier, when possible, for one of the West Wing staff to wake up the president, when needed. Jared's the only real morning person in the group, and he has the bonus of knowing Jensen longest, so the usual grumpiness and misery rolls right off his back. Plus—there are other benefits to getting in to see him before the official schedule starts.

Second cup in Jensen's hand and he doesn't guzzle it immediately, but he does hold it just under his chin, breathing the fumes. Jared frowns, puts his fingertips to Jensen's knee. "Sleep okay, sir?"

"Like a coma patient," Jensen says, and shakes his head. "Cut it out, Jared, we're not in the office yet," and Jared bites the inside of his cheek but he nods, and when Jensen stretches out a hand Jared takes it and curls down, presses his mouth to Jensen's sour-coffee lips, kisses him soft, easy. Jensen sighs and Jared wrinkles his nose, but he kisses Jensen's cheek anyway before he pulls back.

"Catherine's not around?" Jensen says, slumping further into the duvet. He curls an arm around the bolster again, like a teddy bear.

Jared shakes his head. "The first lady's in Dallas," he says. Ignores the gentle squirm in his belly, talking about the woman in the bed that was meant to be hers. The arrangement between Catherine and Jensen is an old one, and not Jared's fault. "Opening that new pediatric oncology wing, remember?"

Jensen nods, his eyes slipping shut again. Jared sighs at him and checks his watch—still plenty of time. He gets up and takes off his jacket, tie, overshirt. Lays them on the nineteenth century armchair that Jensen wouldn't stop gushing about when they redecorated the bedroom. Shoes off, and belt, and in his overshirt and slacks he comes back to the bed and finds Jensen watching him, sleepy slit-eyed, and he doesn't accommodate it at all when Jared crawls up and lays up against his side, but he submits to being kissed anyway, closed-mouthed. _Hello_ , Jared thinks, and Jensen shifts his coffee to his other hand and curls his fingers into Jared's undershirt. Jared nudges his nose against Jensen's cheek, lays his hand on his chest. "How was California?" he says.

"Sunny," Jensen says, like it's an indictment, and Jared rolls his eyes and waits. Jensen lets out a gusty sigh. "Fundraiser was fine. Danny met Jude Law and almost exploded. Panetta got a promise of support for the campaign, but he thinks we're going to lose the 25th and the 39th."

"But we'll flip the 45th," Jared says—an old argument, and Jensen shrugs, still unconvinced, and Jared swallows down the immediate retort about polling data, because this precious hour isn't supposed to be about work, for once, even when every other single minute is. He props himself up on his elbow, rubs Jensen's sternum. "Drink your coffee, old man."

"You're fired again," Jensen says, but he swallows the cup down, and Jared takes it out of his hand and puts it on the nightstand, and then he leans back down and kisses Jensen more thoroughly. Welcome home. He caught Jensen with his mouth open and takes the sigh breathed against him, licking in where he's sour and coffee-sticky, and still plush despite everything. Jensen grumbles even at that, but he makes a soft deep sound in his throat when Jared tugs ever-so-soft at his bottom lip, careful not to leave a single mark, and when Jared pulls back Jensen's eyes are closed, and the frown has cleared from his brow. Result.

He unbuttons Jensen's shirt, untucks it and bares his still-flat belly, his chest, where he can kiss and bite without anyone knowing—and he does, even if it's gentle, and Jensen groans and sighs and his hand touches fluttering over Jared's head, glancing over his cheek, finds his shoulder. Digs in. Belt, and trousers, and Jensen barely helps when Jared tugs them down, gets him naked but for the shirt. He holds Jensen's foot in one hand, rubs his thumb over the perfectly-turned knob of his ankle, and up the sweet bare length of familiar body Jensen wraps the bolster pillow in both arms, rests his cheek against it.

"You better not fall asleep again," Jared says, and Jensen hums, gives him a slit-eyed look down the length of himself. "Oh, is that how it is?"

"You're the one who's supposed to wake me up," Jensen says, a hint of humor peeking through. Coffee must finally be starting to work. "Not my fault if you're not any good at it."

Jared sighs very obviously but he doesn't try to hide his smile. God, he misses this when he doesn't have it. Jensen's dick sits mostly soft, angled gently over his balls on his left thigh, and he hasn't trimmed himself down in a while so there's the curl of gingery-dark pubes there against the pink flesh. So pretty. That's the first thing Jared thought, through the startle-shock of getting open the candidate's pants in a hotel room back in Houston, a dozen years ago and more—so pretty, and he wanted it fiercely then, Jensen's eyes wide and his mouth ready to say _wait, we shouldn't_ before Jared leaned forward and kissed him so he couldn't deny them both.

He wants it now, but the years between then and now make it less urgent, less dangerous. Easier to lean forward on his knees and nose softly at the creamy-white inside of his thigh, barely any hair under his tongue when he presses a wet kiss to that spot. Muscle flexes under his mouth and he runs comforting hands up the outside of his legs, drags his mouth north with his lips catching against the softer and softer skin until he has Jensen's hips in his hands, his nose tucked into the crease where his thigh dips into shadow. His balls sit heavy, shifting when Jensen spreads his legs a little more. Jared presses a kiss against them, careful because Jensen's so sensitive here—and, yes, up above there's an audible sucking-in of breath. He licks, wetting the hair flat, noses against Jensen's strong morning smell, the soft wrinkled root of him. "Oh," Jensen says, on a sigh, and pushes Jared's hair back from his face. He peeks up and Jensen's still got the bolster under one arm but he's watching, his expression something that still, after all these years—he rubs his thumb over Jared's clean-shaven cheek, touches the corner of his mouth, and Jared smiles at him, kisses his thumb, and then picks up his dick and wets his mouth and slips in the soft familiar weight of it. Jensen's thighs flex on either side of him and Jared breathes in through his nose, slides down to wet the length, slips back up to the head and sucks, letting it fill up his mouth. He loves this and always has, but soft in the morning like this is something special.

Jensen tastes—bitter, past the salty familiar skin. Bad diet lately, which the physician will definitely have something say about. Too much traveling. Jared pulls off, licks his lips, and then laps flat over the pink swell of the tip. God, it's good. Nearly hard all the way, when he's been slower and slower to rise over the last few years. "Miss me?" he says, peeking up again. Jensen's cheeks are flushed, the same color as the head of his dick with his lips bitten to match, and Jared grins. "Take that as a yes?"

"Take it however you want," Jensen says, voice deep all of a sudden, and his eyelashes flutter when Jared gives him another broad lick right across the sensitive crown, the soft-firm ridge of it such a pleasure through the velvety skin, and then Jensen gulps air, his leg drawing up along Jared's shoulder. "Jesus, you're—c'mon, man, I—"

Oh—that voice, from Jensen, and his belly heaving with a shuddery breath. "Yeah," Jared says, his own dick starting to fill up in his slacks, and he stretches out, lays out flat between Jensen's legs and on one elbow leans in with Jensen's dick bolstered high between his fingers and goes to slow, steady work, filling his mouth over and over, his lips starting to buzz with oversensitivity, his tongue and jaw building up that low ache. Jensen's hips flex up, impotent under the weight Jared's leaning into them, and Jared pulls Jensen's thigh over his shoulder and slips his hand under his ass, squeezes the still-firm muscle, pulls off with a wet throat-noise that makes his cheeks flush hot and dips down, sucks careful at his balls, cups them out of the way and nips lower, rubs his thumb over the hot furl of his hole. Jensen's fingers clutch at his hair, his ear, sweaty now and needing, and he gasps and then huffs up a breathy shocked laugh when Jared presses hard there and angles himself back up and takes his dick all the way to the pit of his throat, gulping and gagging for a second but—oh, the way Jensen shudders all over, the way his balls jump in his sac against Jared's hand, fuck—fuck, it's so hot. He presses his hips flat against the bed, the sheer craziness of getting this leaping urgent in his nuts and gut and filling up his dick hard enough to make him almost dizzy, and Jensen takes his hand off Jared's head and that means—Jared glances up and yeah, fuck, he's got his hand clamped over his own mouth, his eyes squeezed shut even as he fists into Jared's shirt over his shoulder. Fuck, he's—and Jared screws his mouth all the way down until his nose is brushing hair and he can't breathe, and then he pulls up and sucks constant and pulsing at the head, pushing his tongue where it counts and jerking the shaft where it's all sloppy from his mouth, and Jensen lurches and digs his nails into Jared's shoulder and his dick goes harder, fuller, oh—and then the jerk of it, the wet filling up Jared's mouth, and he pulls back and jerks Jensen through it, gasping with his tongue coated with the taste of him, working him hard and steady and watching him jet all over his own belly, shuddering, a mess, and it's only when the flexing of his dick stops that he bleeds out a deep noise past his hand, his breathing through his nose shaky at best. Jared licks his buzzing lips, panting, and he pushes up on all fours, reaches up and tugs Jensen's hand away from his mouth and Jensen opens his eyes and looks dazed the same way he was that first night, like he's shocked all over again that they have this—and Jared leans down and kisses him, careful to keep out of the mess, his wet thumb dragging along Jensen's stubble until he can feel his pulse hammering in the column of his throat.

Jensen's breathing isn't much more stable by the time Jared pulls back. His eyes are practically black, his lips dark-bitten, full and devastating. "Tell me we have time," he says, raw-voiced, and Jared looks at the bedside clock and—he closes his eyes and Jensen says _motherfucker_ , nearly under his breath, and pushes at Jared's shoulders, pushes him up. "Quick—come on, I'm not getting interrupted by a damn national emergency, hurry—" and Jared kneels up on the bed, unbuttons and –zips and shoves his boxers and slacks down to his knees, and Jensen's already worming around and curls up nearly on his side like a cat and swallows him down, faster and deeper than Jared managed, deeper than almost anyone ever _has_ managed on Jared, and Jared touches his shoulder and says breathless, his balls already seizing him by the brainstem, "Not too deep, you—fuck, Jensen, you have calls later," and Jensen slurps up and glares at him and growls, more awake than he's been all morning, "I'll tell them I have a fucking cold," and ducks right back down again, sucking hard and fast and sloppy, and Jared gasps for air and gets his hands on Jensen's head and does his absolute best not to fuck in too hard, but Jensen wants it and ever since about the third time they met Jared's only ever been able to give Jensen what he wants—and he presses at Jensen's cheek and feels his own dick through it, holds his jaw, pushes in on a deliberate thrust and looks down and sees himself breaking open that movie-star mouth, wet already and swollen, his shaft fat with the wanting of him, shining from his spit, and—"Let me come on your face," he gets out, insane, and Jensen groans and pulls back and sucks and lips at Jared's head while he jerks himself, his fingers cupping Jared's balls up high and warm, tugging a little like Jared likes it, and Jared looks at the sweet pursed fat plush of that mouth and the first spurt hits Jensen right on the tongue, but he pulls out and Jensen lets the next one hit his chin, his cheek, rubbing the flexing furious head against his skin as he's striped up, Jared's stomach cramping at how Jensen's panting, beautiful, his.

After, Jared wants nothing more than to drag Jensen down under the covers and sleep for a year. That has never, ever been in the cards. Jensen looks up at him, fucked-plump mouth and white on his jaw, and the next wish is that Jared weren't forty so he could do it all over again. That's not on the agenda, either. He can kiss him, though, and he curls down over his own still-throbbing dick and licks in, demanding, and Jensen lets him. Jensen lets him. How insane, that that's so.

Clean-up's something they're both expert at, by now. Jared tries to imagine sometimes what Fox would do with the knowledge that the president keeps wet-wipes in the presidential bedside table. He wipes up his crotch, wrestles his trousers back up above his waist, and while he's doing it Jensen groans and stands up, his shirt still hanging off his shoulders and brushing the top of his perfect ass. He stretches, shoulders popped up high, and wipes his face—though not before he swipes a finger through the mess and licks it clean. "You trying to kill me?" Jared says, stretching his legs out on the bed. They didn't get any come on the duvet—thank god. The staff are discreet but he imagines looking one of the maids in the eye and thinking that she's handled his jizz and—good god. No.

Jensen takes his time replying, scrubbing at his jaw. "We've already established that I can't kill you," he says, finally, balling up the wet-wipe. He looks along his shoulder at Jared, smiling. "The Secret Service would never let me hear the end of it."

"Lucky me," Jared says, and Jensen tosses the wipe at his face for him to splutter at and bat away before he disappears into the ensuite bathroom and Jared hears him pissing. He sighs, and licks his lips, and swallows. He still tastes like Jensen.

He brushes his teeth while Jensen showers, and washes his face and combs his hair, and he's putting himself back into his suit when Jensen comes out in his faded Air Force sweats, a Longhorns t-shirt, rubbing a towel over his hair. There's still only a trace of grey, lucky bastard. "You look like an advertisement for you," Jared says, and Jensen whacks him idly with the towel on his way past to the breakfast trolley.

"I'm extremely good at advertising me," Jensen says. "Anyway, you love it."

He does, god help him. Jared checks his watch—just a few minutes past seven. "The stewards have the papers for you," he says. "News and breakfast?"

"I can hardly wait," Jensen says, pouring another cup of coffee and ignoring the food entirely.

Jared shakes his head, pulls the newspapers off of the trolley's second shelf. Jensen opens up his secure wired laptop on the coffee table and sits down with his cup clutched to his chest, scrolling one-handed with the screen lighting up his face. Half an hour, maybe, before they'll need to get out the door, and Jared draws the curtains finally, lets the sunny morning in. The grounds stretch out, semi-private but for the security details making their rounds. Still not a cloud in the sky.

"Shooting in Cairo," Jensen murmurs, behind him. Jared sighs. He comes around and gets his own cup of coffee, and makes up a bagel with cream cheese and lox and capers and shoves it next to Jensen's knee. He gets a quirked irritated mouth in return, but he raises his eyebrows, and Jensen puts down the coffee cup at last and takes a bite of actual, real food. Satisfied, Jared grabs marmalade and toast for himself and flips through the Times, the Post, skimming for what the rest of today's crises will be.

Jensen actually finishes the bagel, miracle of miracles. They read in silence. That Cato Institute cretin who writes for the Journal's opinion pages thinks that Jensen's going to bring about the financial apocalypse. Nate Silver's cautiously predicting gains in the House but that they'll lose Montana's seat. He trades Jensen the Post for the laptop, and with the screen firmly hidden from Jensen he checks the Georgetowner, and finds out that apparently he and Danny are having an affair—good to know—and the House majority whip has a drinking problem (sighted at a cocktail lounge holding a cocktail, the horror), and then he opens a new tab and hesitates and goes to the Dallas Morning News, Jensen's hometown paper, and there's someone in the comments sure that Jensen's a fake Christian and will be going directly and immediately to hell.

"Don't read comments," Jensen says. Over the lid of the laptop, Jensen's back to his coffee. They must have about drained the pot. He shakes his head, looks back down at the paper. "You get that look. You know you can't focus on that crap."

"I know," Jared says, but it's—hard to remember, sometimes. Jensen flips the section of the paper closed—sports section, the cheater—gulps down the last few swallows in his cup, and stands. He touches Jared's shoulder, warm glance through his jacket, and then goes out the east door to the dressing room, and leaves Jared to rub his hands over his face, and reorganize his thoughts for the day. This little respite's about over.

President's schedule: calls at 8:30, senior staff at 9:00, intelligence briefing at 9:30. Strategy meeting for the campaign, 10:30; press conference, 11:00; calls at noon, reading for an hour, climate briefing, economics briefing, meeting with the joint chiefs, calls, interview with the Atlantic, appearance in the Rose Garden with the Boy Scouts of America, meeting with UN ambassador, call with HUD Secretary on the budget proposal, office time, dinner, strategy meeting with communications staff for speech to the AFL-CIO conference next month. More reading, of strategy papers, policy proposals, intelligence memos. Bed, sometime around midnight.

Easy day. Jensen reappears, fixing his cufflinks, and he's transformed. Gone's the lazy, grumpy-eyed pouter, soft in his sweats, glowing despite himself; this is the man Jared decided to follow, all those years ago. Hair so-slightly parted, in that suit cut like he's heading to the Oscars, a jewel-blue tie to match Jared's own. "My first call's to Bezos?" he says, no-nonsense, and Jared stands up, falls in.

"He's in London, at the tech conference," Jared confirms, and Jensen nods and listens while Jared reminds him of the strategy they worked out, not that Jensen needs it. Jensen opens the door and nods to Martinez and O'Reilly, ignores the quiet _Eagle's risen_ as the agents fall in behind Jensen's quick stride. Down the stairs out of the residence, along the balcony, and into the Oval where Maura has already laid out the first set of briefs for the calls this morning. Jensen flicks through them, standing behind the desk, the light catching the few bits of silver in his hair.

"Sounds good," he says, and looks up to catch Jared's eye. He smiles, just slightly. "Let's kick it in the ass."

Jared grins. "Thank you, Mr. President," he says, and exits into his own office as Jensen picks up the phone.

He closes the door behind himself, and Daniela's already there, waiting with his revised schedule. "Morning, Jared, you're late," she says, like she always does, and he sunnily says, "And you're mean," like he always does, and sits behind his desk. The building's humming, people passing back and forth beyond the door that leads to Daniela's desk. She's replaced the sour gummy worms in the jar next to his phone and the President of the United States is five yards away, trying his damnedest to make the world a better place. Jared rubs his knuckles across his grin, which hasn't died down. He loves this job.

"Okay," he says, and Daniela holds out his schedule. "What's next?"

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/183501844639/fic-executive-time)


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